56. Martha Reeves
Proud Camden
13 May 2014
I once made a friend, during one of those school-parent socials, trapped in a room full of bankers and accountants, I stumbled upon salvation in the form of fellow stranded soul stood away from the pack, at the bar. As it turns out he was a big deal for a record label and a fellow escapee from the hellscape of small talk about where these people holidayed. We bonded at the bar over a shared love of early '80s synth bands, with him casually dropping that he’d managed a few of them back in the day.
Every now and then, he pops up with one of those cryptic texts that feels like a coded invitation to a secret society: “Got something weird on. Fancy it?” This time, it was a photo exhibition at Proud Camden featuring long-lost negatives from the Motown golden years; think Stevie, Marvin, Diana, all caught off guard by a lens. Even better, the night would climax with performances from Martha Reeves and Universal’s latest hopeful, John Newman. What could possibly go wrong? Everything. Everything could go wrong.
The crowd was that special brand of “star-studded” you only get at industry events: a few fading soap actors, someone from a band you vaguely remember supporting OMD in 1987, and a lot of people dressed like they were off to a gallery opening because, well, they were. Still, Martin Fry from ABC was there, an actual pop treasure, and he was so charming he almost made me forget the rest of the night was being slowly turning into a bin fire.
Martha Reeves, it turns out, is less a Motown legend these days and more a full-blown aged diva who really does not have the receipts. Poor John Newman didn’t stand a chance. He tried his best to duet with her, but Martha was having none of it, treating him like a karaoke enthusiast who’d stumbled onstage. Every time he tried to join in, she’d either ignore him or let him in just enough to remind him who the real star was.
Afterward, my friend, who’d spent the entire performance with the expression of a man witnessing a beloved family pet misbehave at a wedding, leaned over and spilled the gossip. Martha had refused to rehearse. Flat-out. Said she didn’t “do puppies.” Her exact quote, delivered with all the grace of a hand grenade in a baptism, was: “He can either stand up and sing, or he ain’t no singer.”
Then she refused the encore. Just... walked off. Left poor John Newman standing there like a forgotten Eurovision contestant, blinking in the stage lights while the crowd shuffled uncomfortably, unsure whether to clap or call social services.
Was it a great gig? No. Was it a car crash? Not quite, car crashes resolve faster. But the photos were genuinely brilliant, Martin Fry was a delight, and I came away with a story so awkward it deserves its own limited series. Just don’t expect John Newman to cover “Dancing in the Street” any time soon, he’s probably still recovering.